


Honeycomb

by OfPillar



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 13:39:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17245235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfPillar/pseuds/OfPillar
Summary: Ben has no idea how this started or where it’s going to go, but 34 hours into the Hosnian IPO deal he ends up opening a Youtube video titled “ASMR Back Massage with Multiple Tools - Nails, White Roller, Combs”.His first thought is that this is some kind of weird new softcore porn IT’s going to bust his ass for watching on company time. His second thought is that the woman doing the massage has nice arms. His third thought he never completes, because at that precise moment she leans in to apply more pressure, which makes two things happen simultaneously: a tingling euphoria cascades down his scalp at the sound of her nails dragging down her partner’s back, and the unmistakable black curve of an Omega collar covering the nape of her neck comes into view.





	Honeycomb

Ben has no idea how this started or where it’s going to go, but 34 hours into the Hosnian IPO deal he ends up opening a Youtube video titled “ASMR Back Massage with Multiple Tools - Nails, White Roller, Combs”.

 

His first thought is that this is some kind of weird new softcore porn IT’s going to bust his ass for watching on company time. His second thought is that the woman doing the massage has nice arms. His third thought he never completes, because at that precise moment she leans in to apply more pressure, which makes two things happen simultaneously: a tingling euphoria cascades down his scalp at the sound of her nails dragging down her partner’s back, and the unmistakable black curve of an Omega collar covering the nape of her neck comes into view.

 

*

 

Technically, unbonded Omegas haven’t been required to wear collars in public since the 1980s. The release of several blockbuster suppressant drugs along with a wave of state laws permitting no-fault bond nullification naturally led many to conclude that collars were more trouble than they were worth. Expensive and cumbersome, the thinking went, not to mention a great way to mark yourself as a target. Much easier to just take the recommended daily dose of Detinex. Nowadays collars feature in weddings, historical dramas, and certain niche genres of pornography; there are also pockets of devout religious sects in the US that still use them, though several lawsuits challenging the practice are currently making their way through the court system. This girl, however - this girl doesn’t look like she fits in any of those categories, and that’s troubling.

 

*

 

The comments section is fucking bizarre. Half the posts are time stamps of people’s favorite segments, while the other half consists of praise for the straightforward, no-nonsense production quality or complaints that she keeps bumping the mic. Ben watches another video where she massages her partner's head, the scritching of her nails making silvery tingles bloom across his shoulders like it's _his_ skin she’s touching and bringing to life with her small, strong hands.

 

The newer stuff where she taps various hard objects or drags forks and shit over the surface of a mic does less for him. The soft noises though, the soft noises are _great_ , so Ben puts the first video on loop and pops his headphones in, settling down to re-re-re-review the pricing meeting analyses for another five hours before they can finally go ring the goddamn bell at the New York Stock Exchange and get this fucking shitshow over with.

 

    “Not so fast,” Snoke chuckles when he catches Ben trying to slink off after the balloons rain down - red and black, to match the company logo. “You and Hux are taking the clients out for drinks after this.”

 

    “It’s 10am,” Ben points out.

 

    Snoke’s fingers dig into the crook of his arm, curl friendly around the nape of his neck. “Show them a good time, son. Keep them happy.”

 

    Ben’s eyes feel like they’re on fire. His neck is killing him and his skin feels three sizes too small, stretched painfully tight over his bones. He just made these people richer than God; all he wants to do is curl up on his office couch alone and maybe listen to the Omega from Youtube make her good noises. “Where are we taking them?” he asks finally, heart sinking to his shoes.

 

    They start at Del Frisco’s and end up at 1Oak, because Hux is nothing if not predictable. Ben obediently sucks down four shots with one of the handsier clients while keeping an eye on the 15 minute text updates Mitaka sends. Hosnian Systems opened with 11.5 million shares at $50 each; by the time the market closes, the stock is up 22%. The analysts sing their praises. Snoke emails him _Well done._ He lets himself breathe a sigh of relief as bottle service rolls by for the umpteenth time and bats away a couple girls who are either really into the Alpha thing or really _not_ into whatever Hux and the clients are doing on the other end of the booth. Not that he blames them.

 

Absentmindedly, Ben worries whether the Omega has to work a job like this. If she’s scooting around Manhattan in a tight little dress pouring out Cristal and Ketel for assholes in Hickey suits and Philip Patek watches who probably eye the clasp of her collar with hungry interest. The thought makes him irrationally angry, even though it’s insane speculation. Ben has no idea where she lives or why she makes the choices she does. The thought dissolves and stays buried deep as he forces his body to move on autopilot for the rest of the night - shaking hands, clapping backs, nodding his head until it’s throbbing and ready to roll off the rest of his body onto the sticky, shiny, glitter-soaked floor.

 

*

   

    Ben presented at 10 years old, which, as far as these things go, was precocious enough that Leia and Han took him to visit a specialist at Boston Children’s Hospital.

 

    “Developmentally he’s all right,” the endocrinologist had said, peeling off her gloves and dropping them into the disposal bin. She smelled calm. Confident. “With early-onset presentation in Alphas, sometimes joint pain gets to be an issue because they’re growing so fast. I can refer you to a few rheumatologist colleagues of mine.”

 

    “You don’t understand,” said Han. “He was a little moody as a toddler but now...isn’t there something you can give him for the aggression?”

 

    “What we mean is that we’d like for Ben to be able to live a normal life,” Leia said smoothly. Her fingers carded through the snarls of his hair, cool and reassuring.

 

    The doctor shrugged. “Alphas will be Alphas. You wouldn’t tell a lion cub to eat its vegetables, would you?”

 

    It was Leia who suggested sending Ben to Luke’s academy. The first year was tough: violent mood swings as they adjusted his suppressant dosage, knotheads jumping each other behind the toolshed every other class period, staying on his best behavior in hopes that Uncle Luke would notice and tell his parents they could come pick him up. Ben came home for summer break to find Leia and Han sleeping in separate bedrooms.

 

    “How’re you adjusting to things?” asked Leia over steak and peas at dinner. She smelled of rosewater and dry cleaning, the faintly metallic taste of recycled airplane oxygen. “Are the other kids easy to get along with?”

 

    “They're fine,” Ben said shortly.

 

    “What’d I tell you,” snorted Han, sounding smug. “He obviously hates it. Throw a bunch of knotheads in an enclosed space like that and -”

 

    “ _Don’t call them that._ ”

 

    “- I don’t know what you and Luke were thinking.”

 

    “Oh, like you had any better ideas.”

 

    “Of course not. You’ve got a monopoly on those, sweetheart.”

 

    Ben returned to Luke’s academy taller, more muscled, less stupid. Another Alpha knocked over his tray at lunch halfway through the semester and he slammed them into the wall so hard it cracked the whitewashed plaster. He got put in military school for that, but Luke’s little social experiment got shut down.

 

*

 

    The internet tells him that Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response is a somewhat subjective experience akin to low-grade euphoria, characterized by positive feelings, relaxation, and ‘a distinct static-like tingling sensation on the skin’. It all sounds like a lot of woo-woo New Age energy crystal stuff when he reads other people’s accounts of what triggers the feeling in them - apparently, eating _pickles_ is a thing - but then he remembers the frisson of pleasure that sang down his spine when he listened to the Omega’s nails drag across her partner’s skin and yeah, okay, maybe those in voyeuristic glass houses should not throw stones.

 

So Ben narrows the scope of his search. Though he hasn’t been an analyst in years, the research process comes back naturally. He makes an Excel spreadsheet. He’s methodical. Stuff that doesn’t work for him: talking, tapping, crunching, wet noises, eating sounds. The list grows and grows as time passes. His search history is a mess. Nothing quite clicks: he gets a couple nice chills from anything involving skin, which is an issue best unpacked at a later date, but 90% of those videos seem to also involve doe-eyed girls in low-cut tops who won’t stop whispering as they drag feathers and shit over someone’s body like they’re about to summon the pagan goddess of short-lived bohemian Etsy stores. Eventually Ben catches himself wondering why he can’t find anyone else who scratches with real, proper _heat,_ at which point he has to close his laptop and stare out the window for a while, resigning himself to being the creep who keeps pushing up RJ_ASMR’s view count for the foreseeable future.

 

It’s the simplicity, he decides while jogging through Central Park. There’s something artless, almost sweet about how she just...gets to work with her hands and colorful set of tools. There’s nothing weird about liking that, Ben thinks to himself confidently as he pushes up Harlem Hill. He works with the biggest bunch of assholes and walking personality disorders this side of the Western hemisphere every day - it’s only natural that he’d appreciate competence when he sees it.

 

*

 

    College was nothing special. Alphas and Betas mostly ignored or welcomed him with suspicious curiosity, once they realized that he had no interest in fucking the Omegas on campus. Harvard only started formally admitting Omegas to its undergraduate program in 1999 but Ben saw a fair amount of them in his classes anyway: hanging around the periphery at office hours, studying together in the basement of Lamont library, going on chaperoned dates around the Square after lecture. They were the sons and daughters of middle or upper middle class families, well-mannered and ambitious.

 

    “Just pick one,” DJ had implored during the Spee’s first party of the fall semester. “You're starting to freak the rest of us out, man.”

 

Ben didn't even look up from his snifter of whiskey as he turned another page in his econ textbook. “Not my type.”

 

“ _Unbelievable._ ” DJ heaved an aggrieved sigh before flouncing off to the pool tables, looping an easy arm around the shoulders of the nearest wide-eyed, coltish freshman as he tossed backwards: “You're a piece of work, Solo.”

 

It had been harder to keep from sleeping around during his first internship. People would draw their own conclusions about the width and height of him, so quintessentially _Alpha,_ and from such a good family too. He'd spent his twenties fending off unwanted introductions with moderate success and came out of them First Order's youngest managing director in a decade, with a vague distaste for the whole business of relationships. He jerked off when he felt like it, took rut leave two times a year, and didn't worry too much otherwise about finding someone who would only be disappointed once they figured out he had little interest in public handfeeding or the messiness of an unsuppressed heat.

 

“Is that why you said yes when I asked you out?” his third girlfriend, Bazine, had shrieked when she was breaking up with him. They met at a housewarming party Hux threw when he purchased that obnoxious brownstone on the Upper West Side. Bazine was a Beta, recently from Princeton by way of Newport, Rhode Island, and had long, sandy-colored hair that she meticulously curled every morning before teetering off to her job in asset management at Morgan Stanley; Ben liked those things about her. “Because you're too much of a fucking pussy to properly knot a real Omega?”

 

After that he’d stopped dating entirely. Half the MDs are divorced or on spouse number four anyway; if Hux ever gets married he'll be cheating on his wedding night.

 

Snoke had been the first to find him slaving over a pitchbook at 1am on a Saturday and invite him to talk business rather than make a joke about keeping his Omega at home waiting. The man liked to spin it as a distinct advantage when schmoozing with clients: everyone likes a strapping young Alpha who won't hit on your wife but flirts tamely with your single daughter who's on the wrong side of 35. It had been Snoke who suggested he go off suppressants. Something about a competitive advantage when you could actually smell how clients are feeling, get closer to your Alpha nature. Ben took it as a test of character he passed with flying colors. In 33 years there's never been another person who's turned his head; he's not saving his knot for someone special at this point, he's just - focused.

**Author's Note:**

> If you think THIS is the most annoyingly specific and niche AU ever just wait til I get around to writing "Pinkest Pink", an artist AU based off the legendary Anish Kapoor/Stuart Sample feud.


End file.
